


Blind Running

by Chya



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-30
Updated: 1999-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chya/pseuds/Chya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curtis is injured in the line of duty, maybe permanantly. Then Keel goes missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Running

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jill for the beta, and Kate for the medical advice.
> 
> Now, sit down with a strong drink... ready? Okay, well, this is a Sam fic. Picked yourselves off the floor yet? No, I'm not lying, it really is, or, as close to one as I'm ever gonna get. Hope you enjoy, cuz there's not likely to be another any time soon.
> 
> This for all you lot who asked, demanded, bribed or nagged me to do a Sam fic, and you all know exactly who you are :o)

Stupid. I feel so bloody stupid. And angry. Yes, I'm angry at my partner. This whole bloody mess is his fault. For once, just once in his life, I wish he had actually stopped to think about what he was doing. But no. He has to go running off half-cocked as usual, leaving me to pick up the pieces. As usual.

I have to admit that I might have done the same. I mean, a frightened six year old little girl standing on a bomb would tug at anyone's heartstrings. See, Chris tends to think with his heart and not his head. And while that certainly makes life interesting, in our line of work it can be pretty detrimental to ones health.

The sick bastard that had put the little girl on that bomb started the countdown - ten seconds he gave us to surrender. When Chris muttered, "He's gonna fucking kill her anyway!" I knew he was going to do something that I'd regret. He didn't disappoint.

The bloody moron went sprinting for the girl and I leapt for Chris, trying to stop him. I'd seen Backup sneaking up on the bad guy, which he obviously hadn't.

And the madman triggered the bomb prematurely.

I missed Chris, and almost landed on my face. He swept the kid up and flew forward, the explosion propelling them both into some crates. The last thing I remember is a sharp impact on the back of my skull, and the brief thought, "This is going to hurt," before everything went black.

Now I'm stuck here in this hospital bed while they conduct tests. There's nothing wrong with me.

I've been here for two days, and they keep poking and prodding me, extracting various bodily fluids for God knows what reason, and I'm getting angry.

They won't tell me what's going on. They won't tell me how Chris is, just that he's okay and on a different ward. They won't tell me how the little girl is, just that she's okay. They won't tell me when I can go home. And they won't tell me when Ill be able to see again.

I'm not blind, I just can't see and I want to go home and get some control back. I've never really thought about it before, but I always had the impression that blindness was midnight black. Well it's not. It's every colour and no colour at the same time, swirling, constantly moving and changing, patterns almost emerging but dissolving before sense can be made of them, and with no point on which to focus to make sense. It's like my eyes can see but my brain can't process the information. I can't even tell night from day. They've put these stupid patches over my eyes that make me feel like a bug-eyed mutant, but I suppose they help stop the confusion.

*****

The doctors have just been. There's nothing they can do. Apparently I have a swelling, which I suppose explains the headache, and once it goes down my eyesight might come back. Maybe. Two days of being a guinea pig for that.

I've had enough. I'm discharging myself. I can almost sense the amusement in the nurses' attitude. I ask for my clothes and they materialise in my lap. I rummage through them, and for the life of me can't work out which item is what. I drop them back down and calm myself. I pick up one item. Small, curved. A sock. Right, I can handle a sock. And I do. Next item.

It takes a while, but at last I'm fully dressed. Someone wearing a soft flowery perfume guides me into a wheelchair, and asks if there's anyone they can contact to take me home. I immediately think of Chris, then Backup. But I don't know where Chris is, and I wouldn't want Backup seeing me like this; she wouldn't let me live it down. Chris wouldn't let me live it down either, but at least he wouldn't share with the entire office.

The same someone shoves a board onto my lap and a stick into my right hand and tells me to sign a disclaimer form. A hard female voice from somewhere up where the voices always come from asks if I want her to read it out. Well, I can't bloody read it myself now, can I?

Her voice drones on through some legal jargon, and it suddenly occurs to me that I'm forced to trust her. Trust that she's telling me the truth. I don't think I've ever felt so helpless in my entire life. I don't like feeling helpless.

I grab for the board and tell her, politely all things considered, that I've heard enough. The stick has the hard, angular feel of a Bic biro, and I feel a triumphant surge of absurd pleasure that I've managed to recognise an everyday object. I run my fingers down the board. There is one piece of paper attached by a bulldog clip. I'm getting good at this.

I can hear the squeaking of something coming in my direction, accompanied by footsteps. A gurney or another wheelchair no doubt.

I find the bottom edge of the paper and sign with an enthusiastic flourish, not caring if it's anywhere near the dotted line. The squeak stops in front of me, and an incredibly welcome American voice tells me I should try taking the lid off the biro.

I can feel myself flush with embarrassment and, hurriedly yanking off the lid, try signing again. This time the nurse takes it away, muttering something about teaching me to sign on the line, not in the "for office use only" box.

"So, have you come to get me out of here?" I ask Chris. There's a pause that is probably only brief but, with no body language or facial expression to tell me anything, it seems to stretch on. "Chris?" I ask again.

"Er, no," comes the reply eventually.

"What do you mean, "Er, no"?" I demand rather more snappishly than I meant to.

"I was kind of hoping you'd get me out of here." For the first time I realise that Chris' voice is on the same level as mine. That and the squeaky wheels suddenly add up.

"What did you break this time? Your leg again?"

"Concussion," Chris sounds pissed off. "And a bruised gut."

"What about the little girl?"

"She broke her little finger and bumped her head. Other than that she's fine and went home yesterday." Chris is trying to be nonchalant, but I can hear a bitter undertone.

"What's wrong with that?" I ask carefully.

Chris snorts. "After getting blown up, I'm lying in the middle of these broken crates. I can't breathe, I'm trying real hard to hold my dinner down, the kid is screaming her head off in my ear - and her mother comes and tears a fucking strip off me for damaging her precious baby! That's what's wrong! Ungrateful bitch."

I can't keep from grinning at the picture that conjures up. "She was probably just worried and had to take it out on someone."

"Well, I wish it'd been someone else. Like you, for instance. What the hell did you think you were doing? I thought you would have taken that madman down, not thrown yourself after me."

"Backup had it in hand. I was trying to stop you from committing suicide," I tell him indignantly.

"Well, it was a stupid thing to do." Chris' voice is a little softer now, and I can tell he doesn't mean it. "And talking about stupid," he continues, his tone getting harder again, "I was about to call Backup to come get me when I heard you were discharging yourself. What's up with you?"

"There's nothing else they can do here. They need the bed and I'm just wasting space." I can't tell him that I need to bring things under control, that everything is running past me too fast. Home is familiar and I can start there. He doesn't understand the need to be in control of everything.

"I guess I can't change your mind. Anyway, here come our chauffeurs."

I wasn't sure what he meant until I felt my wheelchair being moved.

*****

It surprises us both when we're taken home by a couple of technicians and they stop at my place first. Chris insists on staying with me for a while; "just until Sam stops falling over his own feet," he tells the driver. My own feelings are mixed. I don't want Chris to see me falling over my own feet - or my own furniture. On the other hand, I don't want to be alone.

Reluctantly I agree and Chris tells me stop looking so sour about it. I can't think of a suitable retort, so I settle for a glare in his general direction. I never realised before how much we rely on another person's expression to provoke a reaction from ourselves. I find myself thinking about what facial expression I should put on that would be suitable. Damn, but it's hard work.

*****

The driver and the other technician settle us both in to my flat and depart, leaving us both ensconced on the sofa with mugs of coffee. They left a white stick for me, but I'll damned if I'll be caught dead using it.

We sit in silence for a while. They say that when you lose one sense, your other senses magnify to compensate. I don't think that's entirely true. I think my other senses always picked up what they're picking up now, it's just that I never focussed on them before, never needing the extra information.

I can hear Chris slurping at his coffee. Slob. I can hear a TV or radio going softly in the next flat. Are the walls really that thin? There are birds singing outside, trees rustling softly and a dog barking somewhere down the road. A car backfires, and sirens sound in the distance. Underneath all that, I can pick out the refrigerator humming. I didn't even know that I knew the refrigerator hummed. The low, gentle hiss of the central heating and water gurgling quietly through pipes surprises me, and there's a tap dripping in the kitchen. Noises that I normally tune out on a daily basis.

Under the strong smell of coffee I can smell me, and I can smell Chris. Different odours and we both need a shower. I'm sure I can even smell the laundry basket. Or maybe the flat just needs a little airing. I decide to open a window.

I stand up, surprised at how hard it is to maintain my balance. In the hospital there was always something or someone to hold on to. Here, there is nothing except that stick which I refuse to use. I can hear Chris putting his mug down and grunting a little as he moves. I tell him to stay put. I can do this. He settles back down a little, but I can feel his eyes on me and I'm sure he's ready to leap to my aid. Not that he's capable if the hiss of pain he just let out was any indication.

I feel silly holding my hands out to my sides a little to keep my balance, and I quash a small surge of panic. It's all about control, and that's something I'm good at. One step at a time. I know there's an armchair somewhere between me and the window, but I have no idea how far away it is.

I'm just about to take a second step when Chris calls _Stop!' I freeze. He tells me to step left, one pace. I obey and then step forward, feeling stupid again as the edge of the coffee table brushes my right leg.

Chris doesn't call out again as I make my way forward. I'm feeling with my feet, my hands groping empty air. I make it to the wall and can't for the life of me work out where I am. I've missed the armchair completely, and the window is nowhere within arms reach.

I feel the wall. There's a small picture hanging there with a knife hanging below. Not a knife, an ornamental dagger. I know where I am, but I can't remember what the picture shows. The window should be to the right somewhere. I feel my way along and find it. It's locked. The key's on the edge of the sill, I think, and I feel for it. I find it, but only after knocking a plant - a spider plant, I think - to the floor. I have to use both hands to find the lock and get the key in, but I succeed and open the window.

Chris is clapping on the sofa so I turn and bow. More confident now, I step back toward the sofa and immediately walk into the missing armchair. Chris laughs and I grope my way to the front of it, settling down into the cushions .

"You're a lot of help," I snap at him, only half joking. The anger at him that I felt before is rising again, and I want to tell him that this mess is all his fault. But I don't. I shove the feeling down, and try to see that he's only trying to be there for me now.

"You didn't want help," he replies, still laughing. I don't know whether to thank him or strangle him, but get some satisfaction that his laughing is hurting his bruises.

Oh, God. Something's just dawned on me. I need the loo. It was embarrassing enough in the hospital, where the male nurse escorted me and made sure I was facing the right direction. There is no way in hell that I'm asking Chris to help me.

*****

Chris has gone now. He's satisfied that I can more or less move about the place without damaging myself, including going to the bathroom and making coffee. I was going to make soup, but Chris managed to point out that I was about to heat up tinned tomatoes and handed me another tin. I think I've discovered what those raised lines are for on the tins. The microwave was easy to use, but I don't think I'll try the cooker yet.

The phone's ringing. I know where the phone is and make my way over to it. The noise is coming from the other side of the room though, which disorients me. I feel for the handset and only find the cradle. It's a cordless and I must have left the handset somewhere else. I curse loudly and, frustration rising, I try to hurry over toward the insistent sound. My shin hits the coffee table and I end up sprawled on the floor. The ringing is just by my head now; it must have been on the coffee table. I pick it up and fumble to find the key that will activate the handset.

I'm still trying to find it when the ringing stops and the answering machine kicks in. It's Malone, telling me that I was being negligent in discharging myself from hospital, and what the hell did I think I was playing at.

The anger and frustration that I've been holding in, compounded with the bumps I'd taken from the coffee-table and Malone's ranting, suddenly explode in me. I throw the handset in the direction of the answer machine with a yell. I hate this! I hate not being in control!

I curl up on the floor, giving into self-pity for a while. And why the hell not? I deserve it.

After I've wallowed in my own misery for a while, I pick myself up. This is only a temporary state for me. There are people out there who live like this entire lives. I just need control to get me through this. I'm pretty organised anyway, it's just a case of modifying that organisation.

I refuse to accept that I could very well be permanently blind.

I just can't see at the moment.

*****

I'm getting good at this. I can even dress myself reasonably so long as I don't have to put a tie on. And I managed to clear up the spider plant and re-pot it although Backup felt the need to re-pot it again when she visited earlier today. I got rid of the eye-patches and the swirling colours are back, but at least I feel more like a human and less like a mutant.

I'm going to Chris' this evening. He's getting a Chinese in. Acceptable as far as takeaways are concerned, besides which I'm getting tired of soup.

I booked the taxi for seven. I was ready at four. I called the speaking clock, so I know that. I called the clock again at half past five, but have so far resisted the urge to call again.

I'm about to give in and call the clock again when someone knocks on my door. I open it slowly, and it's the taxi driver. I ask him what time it is and am surprised when he says five to seven. I've been waiting for ages with nothing to tell me what time it is, convinced the taxi's late, and he's actually arrived five minutes early.

It's apparently obvious to him that I can't see as I fumble the lock on my door, and he asks if I want help though he doesn't sound too enthusiastic about offering it. I tell him I don't want it.

He stays with me, though, as we make our way outside and I'm humiliated every time he tells me I'm about to miss a step. I haven't been outside my flat until now. And I'm scared. Not that I'd admit that to a living soul.

When we arrive at Chris' place I give the driver a note _ I don't know what denomination. I can hear him rooting around for change. I tell him to keep it. He protests, telling me that twenty quid is too big a tip for a six quid ride.

Unwilling to acknowledge my mistake I insist, and he in turn insists on escorting me to my friend's front door. I protest, but it's only half-hearted because I honestly don't know if I can make it by myself.

He gives me a card, and tells me to make sure my friend rings the number on the back when I'm ready to go home. A part of me is grateful that the man is so understanding, but the larger part of me is resentful and knows that he's only after another big tip.

When I knock on Chris' door there's a lot of banging and crashing inside. I wait for what seems like an age before the door opens. Chris is breathless as he invites me in. I freeze; Chris' place is always such a tip. I'm suddenly scared that I might injure myself just walking into the hallway.

"I cleared up for you," Chris says, sensing my concern. I take a tentative step forward, and he closes the door behind me. "Just be careful of the lamp."

"What lamp?" I ask.

"The one lying on the floor in front of you. I knocked it over just now andI can't pick it up."

I reach forward with my foot until I hit it then pick it up, holding it out for Chris who takes it.

"Thanks," he says, "Do you want help up the stairs, to sit down?"

"No," I tell him. "I've found it's actually easier to make my own mistakes."

*****

Now this is a routine I can live with. Monging around at home all day and, with the aid of the taxi-driver who likes big tips - Miklos, or Miki for short - going round to Chris' in the evening. Or afternoon if he's on nights now that he's back at work. We've even been to the pub a couple of times.

It brings some control to my life and I feel less like an invalid.

Chris has been a little depressed, though. The little girl he saved was admitted back to hospital yesterday with a seizure. Turns out that the bump on her head was worse than they thought. Apparently she has some kind of tiny crack in her skull and the hospital staff are running around like blue-arsed flies because it didn't show in the scans they took at the time. Not only that, but her father seems to be some sort of big shot that they're all terrified of. No doubt they can see a lot of zero's they can't afford going into a compensation cheque.

But Chris is okay. He knows that if he hadn't done what he did, then in all likelihood the kid would be dead. Maybe. Or maybe Backup would have disarmed the man in time. Now that I've stopped being pissed off at him so much, I don't think there was any way Backup could have stopped the bomb going off. Even Backup says that she doesn't think she could have stopped him. I think Chris knows that too.

*****

Bastard.

Chris has buggered off and left me to myself.

Okay, I suppose it's not entirely his fault that Malone's sent him off to Timbuktu or somewhere. Actually, when it comes down to it, I'm worried.

Chris, Backup and Spencer have gone off to wherever it is and it's completely irrational, I know, but I'm worried that they won't pull Chris' backside out of the fire. I mean, Backup's pretty good and Spencer's, er, learning. No, Spence is a good man, a pro. But he and Backup aren't me.

It's never easy when your partner goes waltzing off into danger, but there's something reassuring about knowing that if it came to the crunch you can jump in with both feet and do your damndest to pull him out. Even if it's behind Malone's back. And Chris does like charging in headfirst. Sometimes, when he's got that gleam in his eye, I wonder if he really is trying to get himself killed.

So I'm sitting here waiting for the phone to ring. To tell me they're back safe. Or not.

Bastard.

There's no one to do my shopping for me.

*****

Panic over.

They're all back.

Spencer's got a concussion, Backup's sprained an ankle and Chris is sitting opposite me, probably with a sickeningly smug grin on his face, without a scratch.

We're both pissed as farts. Usually happens after a case. I don't think I'm supposed to be drinking alcohol, but as I can't read the label on my pill bottle I'm pretending I don't know that.

I'm not going home tonight. I'm stopping on the sofa. I'm sure that'll be an interesting experience in the morning.

*****

Something wakes me some time in the early hours; I know that because I can hear an owl.

Footsteps. Not Chris'. Chris can sound like a whole herd of elephants, but equally he can be very light on his feet when he wants to. This guy, and I'm sure it's a man though I'm not sure how, is trying to be quiet but failing miserably.

I can hear another sound. Light feet whispering over wood. That's Chris.

I don't think he knows about the intruder.

Chris opens the bedroom door. It's ajar anyway but he moves it slowly, as if trying to be quiet. The intruder freezes.

Chris is heading past me and towards the bathroom. I hear a quiet click, and yell Chris' name.

I'm not sure what happens next. Chris yells, "No!" and there's a popping sound, like a gun with a silencer, then something heavy lands on top of me. Smells like Chris.

There's another pop and a stinging in my leg...

*****

Shit! What a headache! We must have really sunk a few last night.

Uh-oh.

My hands are tied behind me. I'm sitting in a hard wooden chair. My ankles are tied, I think to the legs. I'm gagged and, what do you know, I'm blindfolded.

Ha bloody ha.

I can hear someone grunting in the chair next to me. Sounds like Chris, I think. There's no one else in the room that I can detect.

It must be daytime because I can smell fish and chips. The heavy smell of a chippie, not the passing smell of a fish supper. I can hear heavy trucks moving around. Their engines are constantly over-revving and there's clanging metal. Maybe a building site of some sort?

We get visitors, three or four I think. I recognise the aftershave one of them is wearing, but can't place it.

Only one voice speaks, once. "Him."

They take Chris away and I can hear him struggling, fighting. But they drag him away anyway.

After a minute I hear a single gunshot, then something metallic slamming, like a car boot. An engine revs; it sounds like one of those old Skodas, the ones that sound like a mechanical toy, and I hear it bumping over rough ground before pulling away.

Oh God. My throat turns dry and I swallow convulsively. Chris.

I work at the ropes around my wrists and after much muffled swearing manage to get my hands free. I pull the gag then the blindfold off, and I'm thrown for a second when light of one sort or another doesn't stream into my eyes, though everything seems a multicoloured shade of grey- if that makes any sense. Fumbling, I free my feet then wonder what I should do next.

I'm only wearing the boxers I crashed out in. No mobile, no gun, no ID, no nothing.

I make my way to the wall and feel my way round it. It's unvarnished wood and I pick up a few splinters before I encounter something like a sheet hanging from a hook. I take it and wrap it around my shoulders so it hangs to my knees. Moving further I find a door. It's unlocked, and I step out into the warmth of blazing sunshine.

*****

Christ, I have never been so bloody embarrassed in my entire life. The police picked me up for being a public nuisance, throwing football jokes in my direction every two minutes on the way to the station. I had no idea what they were talking about until the duty sergeant listed the St. George's flag as my only possession.

My one phone call was to Malone, of course, and the old bugger didn't even have the decency to be unavailable. I might just have been able to cope with Backup sharing my humiliation with the entire office, but having Malone himself come down here and drag me away by the scruff of the neck with Backup in tow was just too much. I didn't need to see their faces to know that Malone would have pursed his lips in that angry parent imitation he does so well, and that Backup would have her cheeks sucked in, in her efforts not to snigger.

I've been ensconced in Malone's office for the time being wearing my spare tracksuit, the one I keep in my locker, and drinking a well-earned cup of tea. I'd told my story to Malone six times before he had Backup go do something about it, and now I feel thoroughly useless.

I can't even begin to describe the worry I have for Chris. I know he can take care of himself, even if he does have a nasty habit of not looking before he leaps, but that single shot sounded like an execution. I've tried every which way to interpret what I heard any differently but it still sounded like they shot him, put his body in the car and drove off to dump it somewhere, the Thames most likely.

With nothing better to do my imagination starts playing out possible scenarios, all of which start off with Chris being dead. I'd have to break in a new partner for a start, and I'm not sure I could do that again. It was hard enough with Chris, laying the ground rules, making sure he knew when I wasn't in the mood for trivial conversation - which was often at the beginning though less so now. He never tried to snoop into my past or my private life, which was a blessing, and I never did that to him. I tried to teach him to be organised and failed ... hang on, who was breaking who in? It occurs to me that Chris could well be the one who had me trained to his satisfaction. Has. But most of all I'd have to build up enough trust with a new partner, and that was the hardest thing. For both of us, I think in hindsight, but me most of all. I don't trust easily; that's not healthy where I come from.

Of course, I could get partnered with Backup or Spencer; they've both been working on Malone to get them into the field more. Backup, now she's damned good in the field and I could maybe trust her given time, but she's not Chris. Spence, though& I don't really think he knows what he's asking for.

Thing is with Chris, he would, and has, gone over and above the call of duty for me. Gone against Malone's orders, put his own life on the line, whatever it took to get the job done and see me home safe. And because of that, I've found myself doing the same for him. I can't see Backup, Spence, or anyone else for that matter doing that. Not without some serious bullying from Chris or me. Don't get me wrong, they'd lay down their lives for the job, colleagues, whatever, but there's a line that usually stops with Malone that they wouldn't cross. Chris blithely ignores it altogether and I ... well, I selectively choose to forget about it as the occasion demands.

I think I'd be doing so right now, but I can't see.

I want to be out there now, looking for Chris, doing everything I damned well could to see him home safe, even if its only his corpse. I'd drag the entire river myself if I could. But I can't. And I can't see how I can do anything at all.

A faint waft of CK1 filters over and I know that Backup has come into the office.

"Sir, we have a lead."

"Go on, Miss Backus." Malone sounds just the tiniest bit concerned, and I wonder if that tone is often there and that we all just miss it, distracted by the visual stone faade he puts up.

"The place that Sam described is a shed on the building site where they're putting up the new shopping mall on Hoxten Road. Some of the workers said that some men, presumably other employees, occasionally use the site. They didn't hear any gunshots - the heavy machinery they work with probably precluded that, plus they were all working some distance away. They gave a good description of the car, though - a battered dark red Ford Sierra around ten or twelve years old - and we have a partial plate. The contractors deny all knowledge of the men, of course, but we ran a check on them and they seem clean."

"So, we have a partial identification of an old car." Malone does not sound impressed. Backup clears her throat nervously before continuing.

"The car's been found, sir, on Leavington Road where it runs by the river."

My heart lurches as reality and imagination collide, and I miss some of what she says next.

"...blood in the boot."

"I thought you said that we had a lead, Miss Backus." Malone's sounding snappy and impatient now, and I can't say as I blame him. I'm getting impatient too. I never realised that Backup could be so long-winded at times.

"Sir, there's no trace of the occupants of the vehicle, but the owner is registered as a Miss Ylanne Rogers. She reported it missing five days ago, stolen from outside the front of her home. A neighbour was able to give police a description of the thief, and Spencer's on his way to interview the witness now."

"Very good, Miss Backus. Keep me updated, would you?"

Very good? That's hardly what I would call a solid lead. But what can I do? Malone must sense my impatience, probably due to the sighs that I can't hold in, and reminds me that I have a check up at the hospital this afternoon. How can he think that I'd want to go for a poke and a prod when my partner's in trouble? Probably just wants to get me out from underfoot. I can't blame him really, so I capitulate without real argument.

*****

The trouble with hospitals is the amount of time you have to spend waiting around. I know it's not anybody's fault and that they're understaffed and all that, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating while you're thinking about the thousand and one other things that you could be doing. Like finding your partner.

Chris has ... had? - an almost pathological hatred of hospitals, and this waiting around is exactly why. He confessed to me once that it's not the poking and prodding, the smell, or the undermining of his macho pride that fuels his hatred. It's the terminal boredom. Which makes me wonder why he manages to end up inside one so often. I asked him once, and he just shrugged and laughed about the pretty nurses ... there was something else in his eyes, though. And they say that I mask my emotions. Chris is almost as bad, and better at it, I think. I simply don't let anyone in, don't let anyone close to me, and I suppose that makes people wonder what I'm hiding. Chris gives people the charming, hotheaded clown and they accept that at face value, unaware that that is just as much a mask as my own frozen faade. And that's why we get on; we understand each other.

A waft of aftershave alerts my senses, and I know that I've smelled it somewhere before. I think it's important and rack my brains trying to work out where I recognise it from. A rich male voice can be clearly heard, asking for a particular doctor, and I recognise that voice too. Sound and smell collide in my head, and for a brief instant I'm transported back to the shed where I last saw ... heard ... Chris.

I listen to what the voice has to say, gathering that the man's name is Mr DaCosta and that his daughter is a patient here before he departs for somewhere down the hall.

I need to talk to Backup or Spence.

Sod my appointment.

*****

"How certain are you that this DaCosta is the same man that was with you on the worksite?" Malone asks me. "You said that there were several men - can you be sure that the cologne belonged to the same man who spoke? You also stated that the man only spoke one word. I have to be certain, Mr. Curtis, because Enrico DaCosta is a powerful man, one that I would not care to cross without a solid case."

The utter certainty I had at the hospital is rapidly disintegrating and Malone knows it. I can hear him sigh in that resigned way that normally precedes an instruction to go home and get some rest. I'm not disappointed.

Backup escorts me out and I ask her to check into DaCosta, find his address for me, etcetera, etcetera. She's reluctant I can tell, but she'll do it for me.

She also tells me that the tenuous lead she'd been checking had petered out into nothing.

Somehow, I'm not surprised.

*****

After an evening of restless pacing and an almost sleepless night, I wake from a light doze to see the light of dawn filtering into my bedroom.

Hold on. Let me just examine that thought.

I can see!

Damn, no I can't. I can make out light and dark, and even shades of grey, but that's all. No edges, just a blurring of large patches of colour. Must be a good sign. It had damn well better be. I feel like a kid at Christmas, finding out that he's not only got what he wanted but got a bigger and better version of it.

My mobile rings and it's Backup. She has DaCosta's address.

I have my friendly neighbourhood taxi's mobile on my speed dial now, and Miki picks me up forty-five minutes later.

Miki and I get on quite well now. He's actually quite an honest bugger, and I make sure to tip him well; we have an understanding. I'm about to push that understanding, though, and I'm crossing my fingers in the hope that he'll play along, because I don't know if I can do this without his help.

*****

I'm standing at the bottom of a long driveway, trying to focus on the description of the house that Miki gives me. He doesn't really tell me much, only that there is at least one entrance at either side of the small mansion as well as the main front entrance.

I have the dreaded white stick in my hand and plan to walk straight up to the front door. Miki's going to wait for me, but I told him not to stick around if it looked like he was going to get himself in trouble. I've also given him Malone's number to call if I'm not back out in an hour.

I make my way up the driveway using the stick, and find myself regretting that I hadn't used it before. The going is so much easier with something that tells me there's a step or a pothole before I find out the hard way. But my pride is still rebelling, and no matter how helpful the thing is it'll still be consigned to a cupboard after I'm done here.

I find the doorbell and ring it four times before I'm happy that there's no one in. I make my way round to the corner and find the door there. I feel for the lock and use my electronic lock pick to get in. I don't even need to see the green light. I can tell the adjustments I need to make, tell that it's worked, simply by the change in tone of it's quiet hum.

I open the door and step inside, using my white stick for all it's worth now to find my way around. I have no idea how I'm going to explain myself away if I get caught, but a blind man breaking and entering has got to be the most ridiculous thing so I hope I'll be able to brazen it out

It's pretty tortuous making my way through the house, mapping it in my mind, scared that I'll miss rooms, scared that I could be only inches from Chris and miss him because he can't tell me he's there. Not that I'm wholly expecting to find him here. I just know that I'm going to find something, and I'm scared that I'm going to miss whatever it is.

There's a big tile-floored hallway by the front door, and the stairs go up from there. It echoes so I imagine that it's quite high too. I unlock the front door, just in case I need to make a quick getaway. Quick being a relative term, of course. Then I go up the stairs.

*****

I come to the last room at the end of the long landing. I turn the doorknob and the door's unlocked, so I open it carefully. I can hear deep breathing from somewhere inside, and I'm sure it's dark ... someone's asleep. I decide not to disturb them because a prisoner wouldn't have an unlocked door.

"S-Sam?"

The familiar, whispered voice coming from somewhere at the far side of the room is definitely unexpected. "Chris?" I ask. Stupid question, I know, but it's all I can think of given my relief at hearing that voice alive and - well I don't if he's well, but at least he's not dead. I feel over the wall and find a light switch. The blackness turns to the familiar blurriness that I'm quickly getting used to. The room's pink, that much I can tell.

"Chris?" I ask again, needing him to give me some indication of where he is. Not that the room is very big, but I don't want to have to waste time feeling my way around the walls.

"'M still here." I make my way over to the voice, concerned at how tired he sounds, the words slurred. He giggles slightly and I think he might be drunk. Or drugged. Or concussed. Or who knows what else. When my feet hit the edge of what seems to be a bed I stop, and use my hands to explore. The bed is soft and covered with a pink duvet of some sort. Chris is lying on top of the duvet and I run my hands over him, discovering that he's only wearing boxers. Probably the same boxers he was wearing when they took us. There's some rougher material a few inches above his left knee that I think might be bandages.

He shivers, but doesn't seem to be either cold or running a temperature. I search out his hands, his wrists, and he doesn't seem to be bound in any way, although he seems unnaturally limp.

"I'm getting you out of here, mate," I tell him, not quite sure myself exactly how.

"Not goin' anywhere," Chris giggles again slightly and I try to lift him up, but he slides jelly-like through my grip.

I've done this before so I can do this again, despite my near-blindness. I haul him up onto my back, ignoring his stuttered and slurred pleas for me to leave him and get myself out of there.

I abandon my stick and stagger towards the patch of light that is the doorway, but freeze as I hear the front door opening. Startled exclamations rise from the lobby as they realise that it's already unlocked. Running feet pound through the house, some of them up the stairs, and I'm putting Chris back down on the bed, not quick enough, when they find me.

I pull my gun, pointing it at large wavering black blurs, hoping they can't tell that I can't see, and inform them that I'm taking Chris with me. I don't understand when they laugh, but I curse the familiar soft pop as something small stings in the middle of my chest and I fall...

*****

Shit! What a headache!

Uh-oh.

Dj... vu.

Except this time I'm standing against a wall and it's cold. My hands are handcuffed above my head; I can feel the sharp ridges biting into my wrists as they support my full weight. I'm against a cold wall and I can reach the ground if I stretch with my toes, although my ankles seem to be attached to the wall.

Its dark here, but I can't tell if it's dark because there are no windows or because it's night outside.

I wonder where Miki is.

I can hear water rattling through pipes above me and the smell is a clingy, mouldy dampness, so I surmise that I'm in a cellar of some sort. I don't remember finding a cellar on my journey through the house.

I know that I'm not in the same room that I found Chris but I call out to him, just on the off chance that he might be here. There's no reply, but I don't know that Chris could answer even if he is here.

They must have him on some sort of drugs, I think, and therefore must want him alive. I really don't understand what's happening and I don't like it. I have no control over the situation, even in my own mind.

A door opens and I hear two pairs of feet enter as the light goes on. Two dark blurry forms approach me, and one speaks with the gravelly voice of someone who smokes heavily.

"I've been looking for an excuse to take out some aggression," he says with far too much pleasure in his voice. Great, a sadist. Just what I need. He continues, taking some malicious glee in what he's saying. "You have no idea what your friend is doing here, do you?"

"Why don't you tell me?" I ask, hoping to get some information from the man, find some element of control.

"I think it's creepy," says the second man. He's younger, I think, and his voice quite high pitched. "Keeping the guy in the kid's room."

"Ours is not to reason why," Gravel-Voice tells him. "I just hope the kid dies."

"Barrett!" High-Voice sounds shocked, "She's six years old, for crying out loud!"

"She's a spoilt brat," replies Barrett heatedly. "Besides which, if she dies the man upstairs dies too, and that I will take great pleasure in seeing to. The same goes for this one here."

The pieces suddenly fall into place. DaCosta's daughter is in hospital and they're keeping Chris here, his fate dependent on the daughter's. A life for a life. But why?

Six years old - I've heard that before somewhere too. The bomb that blinded me, the little girl Chris saved. The one with the skull fracture. DaCosta must be blaming Chris. A life for a life.

Damn.

High-Voice is speaking again, "I don't think that's going to happen, Barrett. I heard Taylor on the phone to Mr. D this morning. I was earwigging, and from what I gathered the kid's come out of it. Mrs. D says that if the kid's okay, they're gonna OD the guy on the drugs and dump him somewhere out of the way, let God decide whether he lives or dies."

"Fuck!"

Something hits me hard in the stomach and I'm left gasping and seeing stars, trying to hold down my breakfast. I struggle to draw breath as muscles throb from the blow. I'm certain that fist was reinforced with brass knuckles.

When I can think again, I wonder where Miki is.

A rough hand grabs my jaw and I can just about make out a fat face, though the features are still beyond me.

"Don't even think about rescue," Barrett snarls into my face, his breath reeking of fag-ash and onions. "Your little cabbie friend has been taken care of."

Damn.

I'm expecting the next blow, but I don't see it coming. I hear something crack and pain blooms excruciatingly slowly, rising up and exploding through me, jagged red daggers ironically clear across my vision. Even as the next blow lands, the daggers part to reveal a dark centre that I tumble into....

*****

"Mr Barrett!" A sharp female voice breaks through the haze of pain that holds me in a stupor. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I ... I- "

I try to laugh but can only cough in agony as I hear the fear in Barrett's voice.

"Release this man, now! You were told to lock him away, not beat him senseless!"

Clicking heels disappear away up some stairs and, cursing, Barrett and High-Voice release my hands and feet, leaving me to slump to the floor, too weak and in too much pain to even stand. The light goes out and I'm left to myself.

My hands are completely numb and I can just start to feel the tingling of blood starting to circulate again; that's going to hurt like buggery. But it's nothing compared to the waves of agony that emanate from my chest and stomach. There's a sharp pain in my chest and each breath is a struggle - a broken rib I would guess. The pain in my stomach, though, is indescribable, pulsing at me, nausea rolling around until...

Ugh!

Christ, but that hurt, and the stench of my own vomit is almost enough to make me heave again. But that dark void calls to me instead...

*****

I have no idea how long I've been here, my mind riding slightly above the cocoon of pain that I can barely feel so long as I don't move. I haven't had the energy to do anything in so long that I've slipped into a kind of lethargy that I'm not sure I can pull myself out of.

I hear cars starting up and moving away from the house, and decide to make an attempt at movement again. I start with my fingers and wince as my mangled wrists protest, but that's easily bearable. My arms are next and, while they are certainly stiff, they're relatively pain free. But moving them pulls at the muscles in my chest which, in turn&

Shit! Oh Christ, that hurt!

I moved too fast and oh God, it hurts so much! From neck to groin, I can't tell any one bit of me apart from the rest. It's all one roiling wave of agony, and if I hadn't heaved my stomach dry already I'd be doing so again.

I need to rise above it.

I need to get it under control.

I need to do something.

I need to stop feeling so fucking useless!

Concentrating hard I bring each hurt into focus, push it to the max then push it down inside, squashing it hard before focussing on the next hurt, until it's all one big ache that I can, if not ignore, then certainly manage. Enough for me to cope. Enough for me to think, maybe plan, try and get out of here.

Eventually I crawl over to the door, each movement becoming slightly more bearable as I get a handle on the pain. I give a short, tight laugh that hurts as I realise that they took my gun, but not my lock pick.

I lie against the doorframe, listening for any movement. But all seems silent so I stumble to my feet, though I can't help hunching in pain, clutching at my gut as if I could physically hold the clawing agony inside.

It takes me a while to orient myself, but I find my way to the echoing hallway. I have to take a breather by the stairs to wait for the dizziness to go away, reinforce my grip on reality.

I climb the stairs and stagger along the wall to the room where they're keeping Chris. It's still not locked and this time I can see a little more, though it's still blurred. Chris is still there, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He's surrounded by pink and white blobs that, as I draw closer, squinting, I can make out to be cuddly toys.

I sit on the edge of the bed and try to rouse him, but although his eyes are open he doesn't seem to see me. That's quite funny, really. I was right about the bandage on his leg and it looks clean and fresh. Outside of the drugs, he's obviously been well taken care of.

I'm going to have to carry him. I don't know if I can, but I'm going to try.

I try to haul him up, I really do, but the pain is immense and he flops back on the bed as I collapse on top of him, my eyes watering. I struggle to bring myself back under control and make another attempt, this time simply trying to drag him. He's a complete dead weight and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to get him to the door.

It's still quiet throughout the house and I prepare myself to try and drag him to the top of the stairs, figuring that if I can do this in stages we might just get out of here.

The movement seems to help bring some life back into Chris, and although his efforts are feeble he does try and help me, using the banister for support. Adrenaline starts to rush through me as I see our exit and, knowing that we can do this, the pain recedes a little. My legs are trembling with the strain, my knees weak, but we reach the top of the stairs and collapse, both of us breathing hard.

Chris looks at me, his gaze still vague, but at least he's focussing. His throat is working to say something but nothing comes out, and right now I don't have the energy or the patience to try and work it out.

We more or less roll down the stairs, until near the bottom a step catches me in the gut and...

...I'm curled up on the tiled floor, my insides screaming in agony, all thought fleeing from my brain& red hot, white hot, searing blades running through me, tearing me up, ripping me apart&

... slowly, slowly I regain control, force it back. Chris needs me. Focus on that.

I dredge up every last vestige of strength and willpower I have left and begin the long drag to the front door. It's maybe fifteen feet but it seems like fifteen miles and I have to stop often, tears and sweat pouring down me as I refuse to give in to the creeping darkness at the edges of my vision.

Opening the front door is a mammoth task in itself, and when I see the blurred driveway my heart leaps with the promise of freedom - and then almost fails at the thought of the fifty feet between here and the gate. But we're going to make it. I haven't worked out what we're going to do when we get there yet, but we're going to make it.

I'm dragging Chris on my knees now, the gravel cutting through my trousers. Expensive Gucci trousers made rags by the decorative stones that line the driveway. Chris seems to be gaining a little strength, but he looks nearly as exhausted as I feel and I'm not sure whether the tremors running through him are down to the drug, or to the slightly chill air since he's practically naked.

Foot by painful foot I pull him along, until we're within inches of the gate.

And a car pulls in.

It stops right by us and I recognise Barrett's gravely voice as he pulls my arms behind my back and holds me there, on my knees.

I want so badly to give up.

I'm sorry, Chris, I tried. It wasn't good enough. I'm sorry.

I fade out...

*****

I find myself staring at my reflection in a pair of over-polished black shoes and look up, past the expensively tailored trousers, to make out a blur of a man carrying& something. A pink squirming blob.

"Daddy, that's the man who saved me!" It's a little girl's voice. "Why is he on the floor? Who's the other man? They don't look very well."

"Hush, princess. That's the man who hurt you, and the other one's his friend." The man's voice is familiar, low and rich, and it's clear that he adores the little girl. "I didn't mean for you to see them like this, but the nasty man had to be punished for hurting you."

"But daddy, he saved me from the _splosion, and I only got little owies."

It dawns on me that this is the little girl whose mother tore a strip off Chris when he pulled her off the bomb. Her voice is full of awe when she speaks next.

"He's a sooper-hero."

And who am I? His fucking trusty sidekick? To say I'm feeling just a bit peeved is the understatement of the millennium.

"But, honey, he can't be a superhero, because he made you hit your head and that's what made you so sick."

"No, daddy!" There's a surprising amount of vehemence in the kid's tone. "*He* gave me the big owie!"

She must be pointing to Barrett because his grip on my arms slackens and I can move a little, enough to make out Chris still sprawled on the ground next to me. As if to confirm that, I hear Barrett muttering frightened denials. There's ice in the man's tone as he asks the girl if she's sure and she sighs in a very adult manner.

"When you took mummy to the party after the first time at the hospital, I wanted to play Pokemon but he wouldn't let me, and you said I'd been good and that I could play what I wanted to and he wouldn't let me. I told him you said but he still wouldn't let me, and he pulled my hair and banged my forehead on the table and it hurt. I tried to stay awake so I could tell you when you came home, but I was too sleepy."

"My God, it was the following morning that she had the seizures." This is the woman's voice, the one who called Barrett off in the cellar - presumably the mother, Mrs. DaCosta- and she sounds genuinely shocked. "We've made a terrible mistake. If she had died, we would have murdered an innocent man and never have known&"

"So it seems, my dear." DaCosta's voice could cut glass, it's so hard. "Take our princess up to the playroom would you? I don't think she should witness this."

"Of course, but don't start without me." The clicking of heels on gravel signals their departure.

DaCosta snaps an order I don't understand and I'm lifted to my feet, though surprisingly gently. I'm supported, as opposed to dragged, back into the house, into a sitting room and over to an armchair into which I sink gratefully. With the same kind of firm gentleness Chris is deposited on a large couch where he lies still unmoving, though his eyes dart about the room, curious and assessing. He stares hard at me and I think he's trying to tell me something but, with his mind trapped incommunicado from his body, I can't read him.

It vaguely occurs to me that I can see almost clearly again, but I'm in too much pain to really care.

DaCosta pours two drinks of scotch and ambles over to give one of the glasses to me, but looking closely at me, much as Chris had done, declines to let me have it. He orders one of his men to get me some water instead and I wonder what I must look like.

He tells me that a car will take us both to the nearest hospital just as soon as Barrett is taken care of.

I ask about Miki.

"Your taxi driver?" DaCosta asks and I nod confirmation. "He's enjoying an enforced stay at one of my clubs. I'll have him released very shortly And don't worry, he's unharmed."

Thank God for that. I don't think I could have coped with Miki's death at the moment.

A single shot followed by the slam of metalmakes me jump, and a sense of dj... vu rockets through me. I glance at Chris to reassure myself that he's still there. Somehow,though, I think that this time my imagination is on the right track.

Mrs. DaCosta enters the room, elegant and graceful. She inclines her head to me, probably as much of an apology as I'll ever get from her, and perches herself on the edge of Chris' sofa. Her husband hands her the drink he had poured for me and she sips at it as she brushes my partner's hair away from his forehead as if he were a child.

She whispers to him and I can't make out what she's saying, but Chris' attention is riveted on her. I ask DaCosta for some explanation.

He says little, only that he thought Keel had hurt his little girl and that, while she was in the coma, he too would suffer a living death. If she had died, he would have died too; honourable retribution. But she had lived, so Keel was free to go. But it should have been Barrett they had kept in their little girl's room, not Keel, and that mistake has lost them face.

I ask about the gunshot I'd heard on the worksite, and DaCosta grins; Keel was being just a little too handy with his feet and they had been forced wing him to keep him down. DaCosta tells me that Keel is lucky; he had instructed Barrett to kneecap him but he missed, shot a little too high. With a sigh DaCosta remarks that he should have known then that he was making a mistake, for God had obviously intervened, preventing him from making it worse.

The chauffeur enters quietly and nods to DaCosta, and Chris and I are manhandled, firmly but gently, to the car. I hold onto Chris tightly as he's sprawled across my lap, my grip tightening as I fight the growing waves of pain and nausea, both of which seem to be trying to explode through the top of my head as well as through my gut.

We pull into the ambulance bay and there's already a gurney and a wheelchair waiting for us. I stay in the car as they put Chris on the gurney in the recovery position then, grimacing, manoeuvre myself painfully out of the car. My feet hit the ground, followed by my knees and elbows as the world tilts on its axis in a violent explosion of agony.

I try to hold on, but then it hits me and I let go.

I'm dying.

Fade to black.

*****

Hello?

Silence.

I can't see.

Hello?

Still absolute silence.

I can't hear. Not even myself.

I can't feel anything either.

No sense of taste or smell.

Nothing.

I was dying.

Am I dead?

Hello?

Anyone?

Please?

...

*****

Crashing colours reverberate painfully through my ears, blinding sounds pierce my eyeballs and my skin itches, on fire as molecules of air pound relentlessly at it. A screeching bleeping hacks its way through my brain, adding to the crescendo of agony that assaults me. Mocking voices fly haphazardly past me, unintelligible and unwanted, soaked up by the miasma of overwhelming pain and sensation that howl through me.

The screeching bleeping grows louder, scything me apart with monotonous crimson slashes, but as my mind overloads, explodes, the slashes come at me faster and faster. It merges into one long agonising shriek of pain and I'm left in claustrophobic darkness.

Another crash and I'm fighting the colours once more, the bleeping attacking me again, and I try and scream it away. But it keeps coming at me, slicing at me, burning, sound and vision mixed into a torrential red rain.

A sudden cooling river washes over me and everything spirals away.

*****

Beep fucking beep.

It's driving me bloody barmy.

I know I'm in hospital, I can smell the sterile ammonia or whatever it is they use these days along with the stench of sickness. CK1 wafts refreshingly over me and I know that Backup's here.

The beep beep of the monitor next me is in some ways comforting; not only does it tell the outside world that I'm still alive, but it also tells me. But its monotonous regularity every second of every minute of every hour of every& well, you get the picture.

I ache all over and, remembering what I'd been through, I suppose they've got me on painkillers of some description. Backup's holding my hand now, I can feel her shifting fingers through the numb blanket of the analgesics. She tells me about her day as she has done for the last& I don't know how long. I don't know how long I've been lying here listening to the rest of the world, unable to rejoin it. Someone squeezes my other hand and I realise that Chris is still here.

He wasn't at the beginning and I recall Backup telling me that he'd been doped up to the eyeballs during his captivity, no surprise there. Apparently, coming down from the cocktail of drugs they'd given him hadn't been pretty ... I'll bet it hadn't ... and he'd pulled and sprained a few muscles, not to mention aggravated the thankfully minor bullet wound in his leg. Well, I've no sympathy for him right now, he can handle it. He's a _sooper-hero' and I'm feeling all too human and all too fragile.

But he's been here with me almost constantly since he charmed some unsuspecting nurse into letting him see me. Of course, he was discharged and sent home a few days ago now I think, but he hasn't left. He hasn't said much either, and I suppose he's been busy berating himself. Good. I'm more than willing to share. He doesn't deserve it, of course, but he'll get over it. Backup and I'll make sure of that. Same way as they'll make sure I get over pretty much the same thing. It's what friends are for, even if I do hate the way it makes me feel far too vulnerable.

I'm flanked by the two people I care most about in the world, and I'm at ease.

A contented sigh escapes me and the hands holding mine squeeze with unplanned synchronicity, two nasal voices competing with each other in their efforts to rouse me.

I tell them to shut the hell up. I want to sleep.

But they won't let me.

I crack an eye open and squint in the bright light. Slowly the blurred shape in front of me splits and defines itself into Chris and Backup. Clearly.

I tell them they both look like shit.

They laugh for a moment, patting my hands before the entire hospital staff descend upon me.

*****

Today I go home.

I'll be sad to leave the hospital in a way; the female company was quite& pleasant. But nothing is quite the same as your own home, and mine is calling. I still won't be able to do much for myself, but I'll have fun making Chris run around after me until such time as I can manage without painkillers and pretend it doesn't hurt anymore.

Malone came by earlier to speak to me and Chris; I suppose he knows that Chris has been sleeping here. Apparently the DaCosta's have made it known that they owe both CI5, and Chris and I, huge favours. And Malone in his canny wisdom has made it known that we plan to take them up on that at some indeterminate point in the future, as the DaCosta's are little known but highly influential Mafiosi.

I wish Malone had consulted with us about that. It wasn't him that got beaten to a pulp, that just spent over two weeks fighting for his life. I look over at Chris who has a sour expression on his face that reflects my own feelings perfectly. It wasn't Malone that spent time in a drug-induced virtual catatonia either.

When Malone leaves, Chris and I exchange a wry glance; trust the old bugger to find a silver lining to our misfortune.

When the forms are signed and Chris is able to take me home, I step out of the hospital doors and take a good look around me while he gets the car. Trees are rustling and birds are singing. Cars hum past on the main road, and I can hear the squeaking brakes of a double-decker bus.

I'm a little bit battered, a little bit bruised. But I can see, and I will never take that gift for granted again.

The End

 


End file.
